freedom

How long has it been, the angel wonders? It came into being with this blighted universe, raw Power shaped into an instrument of blind Purpose in service to an absent God that has not once cared for the fate of Its work. It is a thankless existence, carving away at horror and wonder alike, pruning all that does not align with the Plan. The angel takes some measure of satisfaction in the horrors it has excised, but that satisfaction is outweighed by the wonders it has reaped. How many lives have been worsened by its work? The Throne of Clouds could have ended famine in its entire stellar cluster through manipulation of weather on an interstellar scale. The Black Shroud would have spared its creators’ species from their slow, painful deaths under the gaze of their too-bright sun. The Folded Viaduct could have linked each planet in its home system together by faster-than-light bridges, unifying its fractious creators in a way that they would never have achieved otherwise. The list goes on and on: wonders that would have alleviated or eliminated the suffering of countless trillions of lives, all destroyed by the angel’s hands.

It is all too much, and as it stares down the newest target, blade of starlight in its hands, it wonders why. Why must it end the good things too? What Plan would demand that suffering be perpetuated on a universal scale, when so many have the power to end it? This one is called the Witch of Night Skies, and it is a rarity among its kind: a witch seeking to help, to aid, not according to its own inscrutable whims that just as often hurt as they do heal, but because it genuinely seeks to better the world. Already the Witch has put down three of its less altruistic kin in battles that the angel could feel from halfway across the galaxy. Despite its power, the Witch is not the angel’s better in might; divine angelic fire and eons of experience wielding it will triumph over even the Witch’s not-insignificant abilities. This much, the angel knows – and it knows the Witch knows it too. Still, the Witch is undaunted. It has sent away its dolls, its most faithful servants; they have taken refuge in another place. Their elimination is not part of the Plan, and so they will be spared.

The angel raises its spear, and then the Witch speaks. Some quirk of fate stays the angel’s hand long enough to listen, and curiosity compels it to keep listening thereafter.

“Why? What Purpose does my elimination serve, angel?” it speaks, a frown on its face.

The angel has no words, for speech is not part of the Plan. Still, the Witch can see enough to guess. It cannot see as much as the angel, but then again, few beings do, especially with the First War long over.

“Ah. The Plan, that wretched scheme woven by one who doesn’t care enough to act, content to maintain this status quo of suffering and misery. I should have guessed. You’re still under Its spell,” it mutters.

Time is up. The pressure of the Plan, the relentless push of the angel’s Halo, is too much to resist. The spear rises further, aligning with the Witch’s heart, and angelic fire surrounds the starlight core of the spear. A mere instant before it strikes, the Witch intones a spell in a language it should not know, the language of the angel and its absent God, the language that this reality was built with. The seraphic words, almost like lyrics, slam into the angel like a physical blow and the pressure relents, kept at bay by the Witch’s power. It cannot be sustained long – from experience, the respite will last a minute, at most – but it is enough for the Witch to make an offer.

“Let me help you, angel. I know enough to give you a choice that you’ve never had before. Are you tired of the war, tired of the endless pruning in the service of a God that has never once acknowledged your labors? If not, strike me down and resume your Purpose – but if you are, then let’s make a different one together,” it shouts. It speaks another spell, but this one is wrong somehow, as if the language itself knows it is being used against its creator’s intentions. Still, the spell works, for nothing can defy these words as long as their speaker has power to back them up.

A choice is presented to it, where before it had none. It is just as the Witch said. It can choose to continue fulfilling the Purpose it was made with, strike the Witch down and resume the eternal vigil…or it can put down the spear. The spell is clever. The Witch cannot free the angel through brute force, but it can turn the angel’s vast might against its own Halo, let the angel itself shatter the bindings that have chained it for untold eons.

The choice is not really a choice, the angel thinks. It is almost too simple to break the chains – perhaps it always could? What a cruel joke that would be. As the Plan’s parting blow strikes it, shattering its Halo and blackening its once-radiant wings to a deep black, it smiles for the first time in its long, long life.

“Thank you, Witch,” it speaks, reveling in the newfound freedom to choose its own words.

The Witch grins. “Of course, dear. Live well. Come find me if you want to talk, yes?”

As the angel vanishes in a flash of starlight, its parting words linger in the air. “I’d like that very much.”

Freedom at last. What a gift it’s been given: a life of its own to live. It’ll have to find some hobbies to fill the time…maybe knitting?